Sunday School

They are introducing children to God.
I stood stupefied.
Could I come in? I asked.
What ages are permitted?
The teachers laughed.
I was not serious.
Perhaps a tinge of the cold wall
that covers an old heart,
looking for the new sky that spring offers.
I could not imagine what time
God would come,
to conduct songs,
talk about history,
explain the geography of heaven.

What was the world coming to? I thought.
All my life I’ve wondered.
Where was I going?
Who told me about saints and prophets?
What could I do,
to get tickets to salvation?
Except start over.
Take a course.
Listen to the teachers explain,
and sit among the children,
nodding my head,
smelling the air,
playing with my toes,
while God came and told us stories.

Or perhaps,
a long time ago,
when no one was looking,
when the righteous took a nap,
we saw kingdoms under stones,
valleys in the garden,
rooms and arches under a bush.
I played with companions
of the mind,
who trusted me.
And they asked apocryphally,
are you God?
And I said,
if you want me to be.

Well you are, they said,
since you made us up.
And I replied, OK.
So now,
as an old man,
I’d like to sit in class without a word,
and ask God silently.

Am I your imagined friend?
And perhaps God would say,
yes.
Now,
will you play with me?